Chapter 8
EIGHT
TAEGEN
The bell above the newsroom door jingles as I shove it open.
The scent of burnt coffee and old printer toner washes over me, but I ignore it—and the police scanner crackling—as I make my way to the back office.
I walk straight into Patti’s office and toss the morning’s paper onto her desk, my byline staring straight up at us.
Her smile is already prepped, news-anchor sweet. “Great traction on your piece. We’re seeing—”
“You rewrote my story.” My voice is steady. It feels like standing in cold surf—numb at first, then the sting hits.
Patti leans back, hands laced behind her head. “We tightened it. Added context.”
“You added misinformation,” I say. “Anonymous-source garbage. Private—and old—financial details that were never in my draft.”
She blinks, slow. “We verified with a community stakeholder.”
“Karen or Chad?”
She doesn’t confirm. She doesn’t have to.
“They’re trying to buy the farm out from under the Carvers,” I say. “That’s not a stakeholder. That’s a conflict of interest.”
“Everything’s a conflict for someone up here.” Patti’s tone turns patronizing, silk over steel. “You told me you grew up with them. You’re hardly objective, Taegen. We balanced your soft-focus feature with hard facts.”
“Facts you never verified with the people you were printing them about.”
“We asked for comment and Quinn declined.”
“You called after hours and left a voicemail.”
She exhales through her nose.
“You’re new here. Let me give you a gift: this is how news works now. We chase attention because attention pays for ink. If you want to write greeting cards about pumpkin patches, the gift shop’s hiring.”
My hands shake, but not from fear.
“I didn’t come back to write greeting cards. I came back to tell the truth about a place that matters. You used my name to sell someone else’s agenda.”
“And that sold papers,” she says. “Front page. You’re welcome.”
I stare at her, at the framed journalism awards on her wall, at the way she’s already looking past me like I’m a problem solved.
I think about fourteen-year-old me filling notebooks in the barn loft, about the girl who believed words could build something.
I think about Dylan’s hands, rough and careful, and the quiet pride in his voice when he said he remembered everything.
“I quit,” I say.
Patti blinks. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m being real.” I pull the press badge from my lanyard and set it beside the paper. “I’ll be posting the original file with my time-stamped metadata and a statement on my own channels. You can call it dramatic. I’ll call it an apology.”
She tilts her head, pity sharpened to a pin. “That doesn’t make you a martyr. It makes you unemployed.”
I smile, and it feels like cutting a tether. “Luckily, I know how to build something without you.”
I walk out to the sound of scanners burping code and reporters pretending not to watch. The bell over the door gives that same broken jingle when I push into daylight.
For a second the world blurs—anger, grief, humiliation. But underneath it there’s a clear, hard line of purpose. I follow it home.
I climb the stairs to my childhood room in Grandma’s house.
The one with the peeling constellation stickers on the ceiling and the carved initials on the windowsill that my mother never noticed.
I open my laptop, plug in my external, and pull up the draft I sent last night—my story. The one that held.
I set up my phone on a stack of hardcover Nancy Drews, hit LIVE, swallow once, and start.
“Hey, everyone. It’s Taegen.”
The chat bubbles explode immediately—names from Seattle, old classmates, people I don’t know but recognize from the little avatars who watch my videos while making dinner.
“You may have seen the article this morning with my name on it. I did write a feature about the Carver Family Pumpkin Patch, but the version that appeared in print included ‘context’ I didn’t report, from sources who didn’t put their names on the record.
That wasn’t my journalism. It wasn’t the truth I sent in. I’m sorry.”
I breathe and keep going.
“I’m going to put my original story on my page with time stamps and email receipts, but beyond that, I want to tell you why this matters.
“The Carver siblings have turned a struggling farm into a place where families make memories. They built an Enchanted Forest out of scrap and faith. They make cider that tastes like the first day you learned to ride a bike. They employ teens and teach them to show up on time and look people in the eye.”
My heart aches so much, my throat swells. But I talk past it. “They’re not perfect. They’re not rich. They are stubborn, in the best way way—stubborn about community, about keeping land cared for instead of carved up.”
The chat on my video is racing now—hearts, pumpkin emojis, angry faces, question marks. I steady my voice.
“And if you’re thinking I’m biased—yeah.
I am. I grew up with them. And I fell a little bit in love with their place all over again this week.
Because the woods really are enchanted if you let yourself look.
I’ll post a video tour of that trail after this.
Take a few minutes, watch it, and tell me you don’t feel something good stir in your soul. ”
I swallow around the lump that wants to climb into my voice and make me cry on camera.
“If you can, go visit. If you’re far away, buy from their online shop. Share this. Don’t let a loud neighbor with a hidden motive be the only voice. Let the truth be louder.”
I end the stream, hands shaking, and immediately upload the edited walkthrough Dylan and I shot on the first day with new footage from last night.
Fairy lights flaring on, his voice off-camera explaining how he anchored the handrail so little kids could hold on and not be scared.
I add links to the patch’s ticket page and store, hit PUBLISH. Then I fold myself onto my childhood bed, face buried in the quilt, and finally sob.
I don’t know how long I stay like that. An hour. Two. Long enough for the sun to slip across the floor and for the old cat to come knead my hair and decide I’m not a threat.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings.
I scrub my face on my sleeve and jog down. When I open the door, Lanie stands on the stoop with a coffee she clearly stole from the patch and Tricia at her shoulder, hair in a messy bun, eyes bright.
“Don’t ask questions,” Lanie says, thrusting the coffee into my hand. “Just come with us.”
I open my mouth to protest, to apologize again, to offer to write five thousand more words in support of the patch.
But Tricia shakes her head, smiling. “We saw the livestream. And the forest video. Come on.”
“What happened?” I manage as I grab my jacket and follow them to the truck.
“The Internet happened,” Lanie says, sliding behind the wheel. “Orders are slamming the store.”
“People are buying gift cards like we’re the last pumpkin patch on earth,” Tricia says. A mom group in Anchorage is organizing a field trip caravan for Saturday.”
“And—” Lanie’s grin widens— “a Seattle foodie account just stitched your video and told their followers the only acceptable fall plan is cider at our place.”
My brain tries to process that. It fails. “You’re kidding.”
“Also,” Tricia adds, waggling her phone, “your stream is at 200k views and climbing. Meanwhile, the comments on the original article are a war zone, but in a good way.”
“My editor—”
“Is probably drafting a statement,” Lanie says. “Let her. Today’s about us. And you.”
I sit back against the seat, the familiar road unspooling under us like ribbon. “Does Dylan…?”
Tricia’s smile softens. “He’s at the hayride..”
My heart thuds and stutters like it’s trying to change time signatures. “I don’t know what he thinks of me.”
“Then ask him,” Lanie says. “But maybe ask him after you see what you did.”
We crest the last hill and the farm opens below: cars lined down the lane, a queue at the ticket booth that snakes like a parade, kids in knit hats bouncing on their toes, hands shoved into pockets while they point at things and tug on sleeves.
The banner over the entrance flaps in a sharp breeze: FALL IN LOVE WITH THE PATCH.
I don’t remember that being there this morning.
“It was Dylan’s idea.” Tricia squeezes my arm. “I helped him paint it, and he hung it at lunch.”
Lanie brakes in the staff lot and I’m out of the truck before the engine stills. We weave through the crowd, past the kettle where Chase is ladling cider and barking jokes, past the office where Quinn is scanning tickets and saying a warm “thanks for coming” to every single person coming in.
The sound of a tractor floats from the far field, and my heart hitches.
We follow it to the hayride loop. The trailor clatters in, laughter spilling off the sides. Dylan cuts the engine, voice carrying as he gives his end-of-tour spiel—“—and if you liked the forest, thank Taegen for making us remember what we promised it could be.”
He glances up, maybe to check the line, maybe at some instinct I’ll always be grateful for, and he sees me.
Time does the weird stretch thing again—his face going still, then open, like a door he’s decided not to hold shut anymore. He hops down from the tractor in three long strides and his boots hit the dirt in front of me.
For a second neither of us speaks. The crowd flows around us, a warm river of strangers who have no idea they’re walking through the middle of my life.
“I quit,” I blurt.
He blinks. “The paper?”
I nod, tears burning again in a way that’s humiliating and weirdly freeing.
“I told them what they did. I posted the draft. I did a livestream. I—”
“I saw.” His mouth curves, something like pride and relief and awe tangled there. “We all did.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, words tumbling over each other. “I should’ve never trusted Patti. I should’ve—”
“Hey.” He reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, the gentlest, oldest gesture in the world. “You told the truth. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“I wanted you,” I say, breathless with how much it matters to say it out loud. “I want you.”
He breathes out like a man who’s been holding it too long. “Good.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s not scandalous. It’s not the kind of kiss people slow down to watch. It’s simple and sure. The crowd keeps moving. Somewhere behind us Pumpkin barks like he’s been waiting to cue this exact moment.
When we break apart, he presses his forehead to mine. “Stay,” he says softly. “Please. We’ll figure out the rest.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.
He pulls back, grin crooked. “You know, I did promise you dinner part two.”
“After you do another hayride,” I say, glancing at the line of families waving and the kids already clambering onto the wagon. “Go be a hero.”
He squeezes my hand. “Meet me at the forest when the lights come on.”
I glance toward the wooded area behind the ridge where the fairy lights are already blinking. It’s always a magical place, made even more incredible because of the man who built it. “I’ll be there.”